Intersect Files
by Aspen Starlight
Summary: The Intersect makes connections. The files speak for themselves. Various one-shots and drabbles making connections and keeping secrets. Or uncovering them.
1. Nerd Herder

**AN:** So, this collection is basically a bunch of drabbles that I would love to see, but can't really include in my story **Cascade Effects**. There are so many fun little ways to connect the two worlds, and I love writing them. I saw a story similar to this in the White Collar archive so I decided to post. If anyone ever wants to write a story using something I post here, feel free. Just ask first. :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own White Collar or Chuck.

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**Title:** The Nerd Herder

**Word Count: **381

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"Damn it!" FBI Special Agent Peter Burke said, cursing at the red light that was currently mocking him. Laughter from the passenger seat caused him to fix a glare at the offender.

"You know, getting mad at inanimate objects is considered by some to be a sign of insanity," Neal Caffrey said, snickering softly. He kept his eyes glued to the window so he wouldn't burst out laughing again at the look that he knew the agent was now sporting. Therefore, Neal missed the smirk that settled said agents face.

"Unless I'm mistaken, your tracker is an inanimate object," Peter said, and began drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.

"Touché," the consultant mumbled, tapping his hat on his leg. "Why does Elizabeth need me anyway?"

"Elizabeth doesn't need you," Peter said putting an emphasis on 'you'. "She needs your palette. Whatever the hell that means."

"It's nice to see I'm appreciated for something," Neal said sarcastically. A sigh was the only response from the agent so he continued the watching cars that were turning, when suddenly a flash of something familiar caught his eye.

It was a Toyota Matrix. More specifically it was a Nerd Herder. Neal hadn't seen one of the recognizable cars in years, since he entered prison, and the appearance of it startled him. Here was a connection to his previous life, and seeing the car with Peter so close to him made Neal surprisingly uncomfortable.

As the car got nearer, he could finally make out who was behind the wheel. Familiar curly brown hair, accompanied by a friendly grin as the man glanced left and right, caused Neal's eyes to widen. When he caught sight of the blonde woman in the passenger seat, he quickly put his fedora on and turned away from the window.

Peter glanced at him curiously, but didn't say anything for which Neal let out a sigh of relief. After all, explaining why a Nerd Herder containing his old friend Chuck Bartowski, and his old partner/lover Sarah Walker, would take a long time to do and his hands shook slightly at the thought.

Moreover, like Peter was going to believe Neal Caffrey was really Bryce Larkin, an undercover CIA agent searching for rouge intelligence agents within the FBI. It was better to just keep his mouth shut, his head down, and his hat on.


	2. Ding dong, Shaw is dead

**AN:** Because my brother and I spent a half-hour laughing uncontrollably at the idea, I decided to write it.

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**Title:** Ding dong, Shaw is dead...

**Word count: **539

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There was a knock on the door. Normally to Neal Caffrey, that wouldn't have caused much anxiety. However, considering he currently had CIA Special Agent Daniel Shaw singing _Need You Now_ in his shower, he was sweating bullets under his robe.

Shuffling his bare feet towards the door, he slowly unlatched the bolt and opened the door, as if heading towards an early death. He had a feeling he knew exactly who was calling at this time of night. When he saw who it was, his heart sank.

"Peter," he choked out. "What are you doing here? With beer?"

"I thought we could go over some theories on the Rook case," FBI Special Agent Peter Burke said, pushing past Neal into the apartment. He came up short when he saw the two wine glasses on the dining table, and glanced at his partner with a sly look. "Unless you have company."

Neal's eyes widened comically and flickered towards his room. The sound of the shower had abruptly stopped, and a distinctly male voice echoed in the small space.

"Hey Neal, where'd you put that lotion-" Shaw stepped into the living space, with only a towel around his waist, rubbing another one through his wet hair. When he caught sight of Peter, he froze for a moment before a bright grin made its way onto his face and he walked towards the two. "Why hello there! Adrian Kent, and you must be the Agent Burke I hear so much about."

Peter shook the offered hand, looking more than a little shell shocked. Neal felt his face actually heat up, but it was more out of anger than mortification. Although, he was sure that would come later.

"What? Ah, I mean, yes. Yes I am. Nice to, ah, meet you," Peter stumbled over his words, shooting a dazed glance at Neal. The con-man shot a heated look at Shaw, but Peter must have mistook it for something else because he started coughing.

"Are you okay Agent Burke?" Shaw asked, a hint of mischievousness in his voice.

Neal had to ball his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms in an attempt to distract himself from running over to the man and just strangling him with his bare hands. In seconds, Neal had thought of twenty different ways he could kill a man with a towel, but using his hands felt more appealing. Oh, the man was going to pay. Just not in front of a potential witness, particularly when said witness was a federal agent.

"Fine! I'm just fine!" Peter said, gaining control of himself. Neal didn't even want to look at his partner.

"Okay, well it was nice to meet you! Neal, I'm going to go ask June about that lotion. This New York weather is really drying out my skin…." he muttered disgustedly, walking out of the room.

The silence was deafening. Peter wasn't even looking at him, and Neal was gazing up at the ceiling. He quietly shut the still open door and walked over to the dining room table, sitting down with a sigh.

"I think I have some bourbon around here somewhere."

"Yeah. Yeah, sounds good."


	3. Confined

**AN:** This started out as a completely different idea, but transformed into this. My first try at first person. It takes some plot from Cascade Effects, mainly Kate's background as an agent undercover also.

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**Title:** Confined

**Word count: **522

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It was funny what you take for granted in life. Things like clean water, sanitary living conditions, having your own space that's larger than a six by eight prison cell, and most importantly, the freedom. Being inside for almost twenty three hours a day, isn't all that fun.

There had been times where I thought I would go insane in that Supermax. I wasn't made to be confined in a cell for four years. I should have been out on missions, taking down the Ring and Fulcrum. Not pretending to be a con-artist.

When I had decided to become another Intersect, despite knowing Bryce would have to die, Neal Caffrey certainly wasn't the alias I had in mind. But, it was the right one, and deep down I think I knew that.

Truthfully, it was easier to be a con-artist than I felt comfortable really admitting. As a spy, you're taught to recruit potential agents. You call them marks. As a con-artist, your objective is to look for a vulnerable target to swindle. You call them marks. There were a few differences, though. Spies fight to protect their country, cons fight to protect themselves.

I often thought it ironic how much Peter and I truly had in common. We both fight to protect our country. We both fight to protect its citizen's rights. While I may never get to read a suspect their rights (most of the suspects I deal with happen to have committed treason, so they didn't have many rights), I always felt a deeper connection to the man than I could ever display.

After all, I couldn't exactly strike up a conversation with him about our top ten most intense gunfights we'd ever participated in. There was an invisible barrier between us, and secretly I hoped that would one day be non-existent. When I was alone in my apartment, lying awake at three in the morning staring at my ceiling and wondering if my cover will be blown the next day, I secretly wished I could tell Peter everything.

I wished I had the freedom to tell him how I had destroyed the closest relationship I ever had to a brother with Chuck. How Sarah had chosen Chuck over me, and just how much it ached. How I decided to fake my own death, to possibly save the lives of thousands of people. How absolutely alone and broken I was because of it.

But then there were nights, like tonight, where I lay in bed with Kate in my arms. I would gently stroke her hair when she began to whimper in her sleep, whispering sweet nothings to her as she relived her days during her nights. Sometimes, I got no sleep. But you know what? That didn't matter. I could sleep when I was finally dead.

All that mattered was right now, when I can feel her heart beating against my hand, proof that I wasn't alone in this. Because when the sun came up, and her side of the bed was cold again, sometimes it felt like I was back in that six by eight cell.


	4. Doppelganger

**AN:** Just a goofy little one-shot that would never happen, but be quite funny if it did. The Cyprus Conference is supposed to be like an intelligence conference, or a UN conference. Just a quick note, if anyone has a prompt for a White Collar/Chuck story, let me know and I'll see what I can do. I'm open to ideas! I've got a list of about 20 different prompts already, so I have a feeling this is going to end up being an interesting story. :D

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**Title:** Doppelganger

**Word Count: **1,485

**Prompt: **Running

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Bryce Larkin loved to run. When he was in high school he had been a star track athlete and had held the Washington state record in the 3000 m. He had even gotten a scholarship to Stanford for the sport. But, Bryce Larkin was dead, and his name quietly removed from any record it turned up on. That didn't mean Neal Caffrey had to hate running.

Oh no. Neal loved to run. The feeling of exhilaration and adrenaline he felt as his feet pounded against the pavement couldn't really be matched. There was also the additional perk of his running not being due to a hail of gunfire, that made him grin. And if there was gunfire, he always had a backup gun strapped on his ankle.

He could blend in with the crowd easily, his baggy sweats and black skull cap perfectly normal. None of his fellow runners would ever know that they had a CIA agent in their midst, and that was how it should be.

In prison he had hated the strict control. The short exercise period he had been allowed each day wasn't enough for someone who had been used to freedom. However, he would rather have been alive and a little less fit, than dead and, well, dead.

When he had finally gotten out of the hell hole, it was only for him to be give another tether- the ankle bracelet. He knew the two mile radius would not be enough, so he dealt with it the only way a computer engineer should but probably wouldn't; he hacked into the US Marshals' tracking system and did some tweaking. Neal Caffrey was currently, at five in the morning on a Saturday, in bed. At least, according to the database he was. In reality, he was jogging along the '6 mile' loop in Central Park.

Keeping fit was important to him. As a spy, he had to be in good shape, or he could be killed. It was as simple as that. Of course, it had been hard to get time to sleep when on missions sometimes, let alone exercise. Now, he took advantage of it.

Usually, since his time in the mornings was limited, he only ran half the distance. But, it was Saturday, they didn't have a case, and he had a feeling that many people would be sleeping in rather than running. It would be the perfect time to just reflect. Yet, he had a feeling that would not happen. His feelings were usually quite accurate.

The sound of two pairs of approaching runners caused him to tense slightly. When he heard their voices, he almost froze. Maybe if he just kept his head down…

"See Peter. I told you that we wouldn't be the only ones out!"

Nope, he was screwed. It just had to be Elizabeth's familiar voice, which sounded out of breath. Peter's response was no better.

"I would rather be in my nice warm bed, sleeping with my wife." They were slowly gaining ground on Neal.

"Well it's too bad, _your wife_ would rather be out running," El said, and Neal had to hold in a chuckle when he heard her tone. He could practically see Peter cringing under her glare. "Besides, this is nice. We don't get to workout together often…..So, where do you keep your gun?"

Peter made a choking sound, and said, "I always thought he would be a bad influence."

Neal tried to hold in laughter at El's question and Peter's horrified response. Instead, he ended up having a sudden coughing fit, and he felt their gazes on him. _Shit._

"Hey kid! You okay?"

He looked back. The moment he saw Peter's and El's eyes widen in recognition, he realized he had made a mistake.

"Neal?"

He ran. He knew surprise was on his side, so he had a few seconds over Peter which he would use to his full advantage. Feet flying over the concrete, he heard the sounds of two people chasing him. Despite knowing it was El and Peter, it still caused his heart to beat faster. At least he wasn't getting shot at. Yet.

"Neal! Stop!"

Wait, what if…..but that….there was no way. It wouldn't work. But the idea began to take shape, and the temptation to pull a fast one over Peter started to consume him. It would work. And it would be fun as hell. Moz was going to be so proud.

He abruptly slowed down his pace, like he was struggling to keep his pace. Making his breathing sound ragged, sure enough he heard the thump of the rapidly approaching agent. Moments later, he had his face smashed into the grass as Peter tackled him from behind. Okay, so maybe his plan wasn't that fun.

His arms were jerked behind his back, like he was going to be cuffed, but instead he was hauled up off the damp ground. He made a show of hissing in pain, but Peter didn't seem to notice.

"Neal! You're not supposed to be here," Peter said in disbelief, staring into cold grey eyes.

"I'm sorry, who?" he asked, his tone chilly. Just to throw the man off more, he used a British accent. "I think you have the wrong man."

He struggled a little, putting on a show of jerking his hands in an attempt to get out of the agent's bruising grip. Internally, he was laughing hysterically.

Peter did a double-take, looking Neal up and down. He frowned and said, "Neal, quit playing games."

"Like I said before, _Sir_," he dragged the word out like he was insulting Peter's intelligence, "I don't know who this 'Neal' is. So if you would kindly, unhand me-"

"Peter! Let him go!" El said, finally catching up to them. She bent over, panting from exertion, but looked up at her husband. "You can't just tackle someone!"

"I- well, its just- I thought it was Neal," Peter said weakly.

"I'm not entirely sure I would want to be this 'Neal' person. You appear to enjoy knocking him about," Neal said, and finally ripped his hands out from Peter's grip. Rubbing his wrists as if they hurt, he turned around and blatantly sized up the agent. "Let me guess, FBI? Oh, apparently! That shocked expression rather confirms it. Hmm, you don't seem like the organized crime type. So…cyber crimes, perhaps. No, that's not it. Wait, white collar!"

He met Peter's surprised eyes with a cold and calculating gaze of his own. When he made a move towards his sweat pants pocket, the agent's hand seemed to automatically shift to his non-existent shoulder holster.

"Are all American agents this jumpy?" Neal asked, and pulled out a slim black wallet. He flipped it open as the agent relaxed his tense stance, and held it out. "In my personal experience, identification is a safe bet for verifying identity. Although, you may believe differently. As you seem to be a white collar specialist, I'm sure you know that it is notoriously difficult to forge the CIA's ID badges."

"Because they change every year," Peter muttered, examining the piece of plastic. His eyes slanted up to Neal's. There was a touch of suspicion still present, but a majority of it had been replaced with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry Mr. Larkin."

"Agent, please," he said, grabbing his offered ID and placing it back into the wallet.

"Right." Peter looked stunned for a moment, and Neal wanted to laugh at the expression but he refrained. "Agent. Sorry."

"It's not a problem, Agent Burke. Now, if you are through with me, I need to be at the Cyprus Conference in an hour. Mrs. Burke." Neal nodded politely, and as if the incident had never happened, he jogged off in the direction he had been heading before.

Oh yes, pulling the wool over Peter Burke's eyes was still fun. He'd have to make sure to brush his teeth when he got back to June's though. He was pretty positive he had some grass in stuck in his front ones.

* * *

El smacked Peter on the arm, hard. He dragged his attention from the strange man they had just encountered, to his wife who had her hands on her hips and looked upset.

"You tackled a CIA agent? Peter, you're lucky he didn't hit you back! Besides, I knew it wasn't Neal. He had a ring on his finger!" She was definitely not happy with him. Thinking back, he realized now that the man had had a silver band around his left ring finger. So the agent had been married. However, analyzing the conversation, something else hit him.

"How did he know our names?"

Glancing back at where the man had jogged off, Peter was surprised to see him no where in sight.


	5. Dagger

**AN:** So, this is part one of a two part drabble. I've had it done for a while, but as I originally had a different plan for it, yet had a hard time changing anything, I'm going to post it. The next chapter will be a continuation of this. And for those waiting for the next chapter of "Cascade", I'm working on it =) A case of whooping cough, a unexpected Glee fanfiction binge, along with enough schoolwork to last me a while, has put me a little behind. It'll be done soon though! *Unbetaed, so all mistakes (including my butchering of a Russian accent) are all my own*

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**Title: **Dagger

**Word count: **1,371

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"Damn it." The man partially turned around the building he was taking cover behind, and squeezed off two shots. The semi-automatic pistol in his hand jerked, its recoil strong but controllable enough, and the distinct crack of gunfire echoed in the night.

Quickly pulling his head back when his assailant returned fire, bullets ripping into the concrete walls dangerously close to his head, Bryce Larkin grinned and ejected the spent magazine. He hadn't been in a gunfight in a long time, and he realized he had strangely missed the rush of adrenaline one produced. The last one he had participated in, or really been close too, he hadn't even had a gun. Being undercover as Neal Caffrey, who was a convicted felon, surrounded by other federal agents was tough like that. He had been practically giddy when General Beckman had told him he had a mission, if only because he could be himself for a while. And, well, it was a mission. Why wouldn't he be happy?

The returning gunfire suddenly stopped, replaced instead with a gruff voice who had a rather strong Russian accent. "Vhy not you 'and over drive. I make death easy on you."

Bryce rolled his eyes, and sighed in exasperation. The sounds of the New York night were loud, but he could still make out the other man's movement on the roof; he wasn't doing anything to conceal his footsteps. There wasn't really a need, considering they both knew the other was there, and they were on a roof. The only place to go was down.

Instead of responding, Bryce eyed the edge of the roof from his position behind the wall. It wasn't perhaps the best exit he had ever thought of, the first Intersect room probably topped that list, but it would have to do. A plan was slowly taking shape in his mind, but it would hurt. Probably a lot. It was better than being dead though, so he took a deep breath and nodded to himself decisively.

When he had been in college, one of his many sports had been gymnastics. Out of all the events, he had excelled most in the vault. Of course, vaulting off a ten story building was quite different then vaulting off a springboard. For one thing, he didn't have a coach yelling in his ear to, _"Stick that damn landing Larkin or I'll bench your sorry ass!"_ Honestly, he'd rather take the gun wielding Russian any day. And today was that day apparently.

"No can do _comrade_," Bryce said, his voice cutting through the darkness. He heard the man pause, and grinned he slightly as he pulled a small flash drive out of his jacket pocket. Placing the little red stick of plastic on the ground, he then quietly began to edge around the building the other way. "Does Volkoff take IOU's though? No, wait. I think the government has a policy against dealing with arms dealers. Quite a few of them actually."

"I 'ave no time for game. Give drive to me." The Russian certainly sounded impatient.

Bryce had by now snuck around the building, and knew the next corner he would turn would lead directly into the Russian. Well, the back of the Russian. He kept his gun down, and slowly peaked around the corner. The tall, lumbering man did have his back to him, and was moving towards the spot were Bryce had been moments before. Seeing that the man wasn't looking his way now, he stepped out from behind the corner and advanced. He waited until the man turned the corner where he expected Bryce to be, and glance down in confusion at the flash drive, before making a move

"Despite all appearances to the contrary," Bryce said coldly, leveling his gun to the man's bald head from behind and watching as he stiffened when the cool metal made contact. "I really don't want to shoot you. Between you and me, getting blood out of a Devore is a nightmare." He whispered the last part, and then shifted the gun down so it was now directed at the middle of the man's spine. "Now. Why don't you put that gun down and we can figure something out."

"Volkoff not do _deal_," the man spat, and dropped the gun with a clatter. Bryce opened his mouth to reprimand the man for the stupid move, but before he could, the Russian struck.

His gun was knocked from his hand, and he watched as it skittered across the stone roof. However, he was pulled from his stray observation when the large man grabbed both his arms and bodily picked him up. He was violently hurled against the concrete building, and he cried out in both surprise and pain when he felt something in his chest snap. Recognizing that he now had potentially broken ribs to contend with, he realized his plan would have to change a bit. There was no way he could vault off the roof now. But, he would need to reach his gun and his eyes darted towards it.

The man's large, and rather beefy, hands suddenly moved from Bryce's arms to his throat and pinned him to the wall. Black spots quickly materialized in his vision as his breath was restricted even more, and he met the man's glinting eyes in panic. Bringing his own hands up, he scrabbled fruitlessly at the man's hands in an attempt to remove the tight grip. He was rewarded for his troubles with a tighter grip and quick slam against the unforgiving wall; the back of his head colliding with the concrete and causing stars to join the black spots. His heart pounded painfully against his chest and he couldn't draw in air; he was beginning to lose consciousness and his vision of the grinning Russian started to fade. Lashing out desperately, his foot made contact with something that made the bruising grip recede, and he slumped ungracefully to the ground.

As Bryce gasped for air where he was leaning on the wall for support, trying to ignore the stabbing pains coming from his chest and battered throat, he shot a glance at the other man. He grimaced when he saw the man rolling around on the ground clutching his groin, and discerned that his foot must have hit a very sensitive place indeed. The gun he had dropped earlier was lying between them, but he didn't reach for it. Still gasping, he reached down towards his ankle and felt for the tracking anklet. His fingers ghosted over the plastic, going instead for the metal attached next to it. With a pop, the small backup handgun released into his waiting hand and he shakily directed it towards the Russian.

"That…wasn't…too…smart," Bryce said, and hissed in discomfort as he tried to stand up. Bracing his free hand on the wall, he slowly got his feet under him and was able to slide himself up the wall into a standing position. His free hand moved from the wall to curl around his injured chest, and he had to blink a few times to get rid of the spots still dancing across his line of vision. When he tried to draw in a deep breath, he ended up bent over, coughing as his throat protested. The movement agitated his ribs, and he convulsed as a wave of excruciating pain shot through his chest. The intensity of it took his breath away, and he knew they were broken. _Damn it._

The Russian made am abrupt grab for the gun that he had knocked away from Bryce at the beginning of the scuffle, and Bryce let him. Still bent over, he watched emotionless as the man raised the gun and pulled the trigger. There was a click, and he smirked at the bewildered expression on the man's face.

"Oh," he started coolly, and brought his own gun up, "and…next… time… you may.. want ..to make sure the gun is loaded."

The sharp crack of a gun going off echoed in the night, accompanied by a bright muzzle flash that briefly illuminated Bryce Larkin's blank face.


	6. Cloak

**AN:** Here is part two of this little two part one-shot series. The titles of the two chapters are probably two of my favorites for some reason. Anyway, the end was supposed to be completely different, then Neal said that, and well, it worked. In case someone is wondering (or notices, as I'm kind of hyperaware of it) I refer to Bryce as Bryce when he's acting more like Bryce Larkin Super Spy, as in the last chapter. Here, I refer to him as Neal, though they are the same person. It's just got to do with the tone I'm trying to shoot for. Now, sorry for rambling (I get like this when it's late heh), so here is the chapter! And thanks for reviews! Sorry that I haven't responded yet; school is keeping me insanely busy. :D

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**Title:** Cloak

**Word Count: **1,678

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It was not Neal Caffrey's day.

He had spent two hours last night cleaning up his mishap with the Russian, than another hour getting back to June's and licking his wounds (metaphorically speaking), and half an hour being berated by the head of the NSA. After finally making it to bed around three in the morning, he only got to sleep/toss-and-turn for three hours as Peter had called at six telling him they had a case and he needed to be in early. Miserably dragging his aching body out of the warm bed, he had taken one look at his reflection in the mirror and flinched.

The afterimage of two large hands was painted around his neck with bruises and he traced them with a feather light touch. Angry black and red and blue, bruises. They extended all the way around, and he could make out the point where the Russian's thumbs had dug underneath his chin in the attempted strangling. With a little twitch to the side, his neck could have easily been snapped beneath the powerful fingers. The thought made him shudder.

Trailing his own fingers further down, he came upon the top of more bruising, this time on the left side of his chest. Having fractured his ribs a few times before, he recognized the symptoms: excruciating pain shooting up his chest when taking a breath, or running, or walking up stairs, or anything physical really. He wasn't going to wrap them, having learned from his mistakes the first time after he got a horrible case of pneumonia, but he knew that he had to do something. The painkillers he had taken a few hours ago, a few Tylenol, had already worn off and he ached. Everywhere.

Plus, he was pretty sure that he had a slight concussion because his head hurt and bright light didn't really agree with him. There was also the unpleasant nausea that seemed to be building by the minute. That could have been from the pain too though. Which reminded him. Medication. There was no way in hell that he was getting through this already horrid day with out an analgesic of some kind. It just wasn't happening.

He turned away from the hideous mirror image and shuffled over to his bookcase in the main area of the apartment. Out of the hundreds of books, mostly older works but a few modern ones (he was a bit of a Harry Potter fan), that lined the polished red wood shelves he knew just the one he was looking for- _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_.

Plucking the small book off of the shelf, thankfully one of the lower ones, he then shuffled over to the kitchen area. He set the book down on the counter and grabbed a clean glass before filling it with water. Once that was done, he picked up the book again, this time cracking it open. Flipping the first ten pages, he found what he wanted. There, where pages should have been, was a carved out cavity. Inside the cavity was a single clear Zip-Lock bag that contained smaller baggies. Each one was filled with different pills. Now, he just had to pick which one he wanted. Choices, choices.

* * *

Neal stared in carefully concealed horror at the _DUE TO MAINTENCE, ELEVATOR NOT IN SERVICE_- sign on the elevator. He stopped reading after "service". Seriously? _Seriously?_ Did someone hate him? Never mind, he knew the answer to that question (yes).

He'd have to walk up. Twenty. One. Floors. With a fractured rib, and aching body, he wasn't so sure he could do it. He'd take that Russian any day. Hell, at this point he'd take his old gymnastics coach. And yeah, he had taken enough pain medication to knock out Satchmo, and he was quite possibly a little high because of it, but still. Twenty one floors!

His phone buzzed, and he blankly looked down at the screen. Peter had texted him, asking if he was there yet. He nodded, but then realized that Peter couldn't see him, so his fingers clumsily moved over the Blackberry's keys and he typed back, "_On my way."_ Except, it didn't come out like it should have, and he only realized that fact after he had sent the message. Apparently he was, _"On mu war."_ Damn AutoCorrect.

Quickly, he retyped the message, correctly this time, and sent it off. Peter replied with a simple, _"Fine."_, and Neal resumed staring at the stairs. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

And it was. By ten in the morning he felt ready to pass out on his desk, and by noon he had basically passed out on his desk. He was hunched in the chair, as he had realized that putting his head down on the desk actually hurt his chest. He still had to be extremely careful that the fractured rib didn't move around too much, because there was the real possibility of it puncturing his lung. That would certainly be something. He could just visualize the agent's expressions if he suddenly collapsed in front of them. The look on their faces when they would rip open his shirt and find the evidence of his fun activities from the night before, would be quite hilarious he was willing to bet.

"Neal?" Peter sounded shocked. "Are you sleeping?"

Reaching up, thankful that the fedora obscured his face at that moment because he was in pain, he removed the hat and put on a false grin. "Of course not! Why would I, when mortgage fraud is so much more fun?"

The agent caught the heavy sarcasm, and rolled his eyes from his perch on the corner of Neal's desk. He was reading from a file, but he glanced slyly at the consultant and asked, "Did I wake Sleeping Beauty too early?"

"Something like that," Neal muttered, and threw the hat onto the desk where it landed on a stack of blue folders, subsequently succeeding in concealing the accompanying wince. He was extremely thankful for the Intersect's vast database of information dealing with concealment. Without it, the two hand shaped bruises he currently possessed on his neck would have been a little too clearly visible. No doubt it would have raised some questions. He just hoped that he wouldn't have to take off his shirt anytime soon.

* * *

"You look like Satchmo when El gives him a bath."

"I'm….well aware….of …..how wet…..I am, Peter." There was an unpleasant squelching noise, accompanied by the sound of dripping water against pavement and strained breathing. "And unless…. you want… to be just….. as soaking, I….. suggest you….hand…..me that towel."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh," Neal said, a serious glint in his grey eyes as he eyed his partner's amused face, "you keep...comparing me...to your dog...I will. Then…..I'll throw….. the towels….in after you."

"Evil. That's what you are." Peter shook his head and laughed at Neal's peeved expression, but handed him a fluffy white towel. He missed the look of pain that crossed Neal's face as he moved to take the towel.

"If I …was evil…I…..would.. have… let.. Rider go," he gasped out, in between desperate breaths. The pain in his chest was almost unbearable, and he knew that his fractured ribs could have just gotten worse. But, it had either been pain, or letting a criminal escape.

Which Neal would have never let himself do. Ever. While he had to play a criminal, his past dictated that he help keep the country safe, no matter the crime. The badge didn't mean a whole lot to him, but the idea behind it did. And that idea meant that there had been no way in hell Tyson Rider was getting away. On paper, corporate espionage, that consisted of illegally selling the blueprints of a revolutionary computer system developed by Nexxus Systems Inc. to the Chinese, didn't sound all that bad. Certainly not as bad as something like rape or murder. The thing was, Nexxus was a supplier for the Central Intelligence Agency, and this particular breech in the company stung personally.

Though, Rider had never really sold anything to the Chinese. He had sold something to the FBI, albeit not knowing that his buyer was really a very convincing undercover agent. After weeks of carefully cultivating a relationship with Rider- something that could be comparable to a courtship perhaps- the agent had finally gotten the man to agree to selling the blueprints for a hefty sum. Considering that Rider held a rather high position in the company, that of CEO, and the company itself held government contracts that stipulated any developed technology could not be sold to another country, the man was in some deep water. Both literally and figuratively.

Two teams from the White Collar unit, the undercover agent's and Peter's, had been assigned to the arrest. Neal had tagged along, despite a gut feeling that he really should just stay and work on boring insurance fraud cases as they were safer. But for once, he didn't listen, and he had somehow found himself tackling Tyson Rider into the man's pool as he tried to sneak out from around the back. Had he been in good physical condition, this would not have posed a problem. However, with fractured ribs and a body that looked like a hideous impressionist painting, he didn't feel much like changing in front of Peter. Or anyone, for that matter.

"The Bureau will be happy," Peter said, and Neal could feel the man's angry, burning gaze on his face as he toweled off. He felt like he should have worn sunscreen. Was there an SPF ten billion? He'd probably die of radiation poisoning first.

"I try," he quipped, running the towel through his hair. He saw Peter frown and he hurried to add, "I know you told me to stay in the car-"


	7. Blackmail

**AN:** This is an interesting one. In my other WC/Chuck crossover, Cascade Effects, Fowler mentions something about pictures of a mission Shaw and Bryce were on in Paris. As he used them as leverage (of sorts), you can assume they are embarrassing. Well, here is how embarrassing. And rather entertaining. I'm working on the next chapter of Cascade, but I'm not sure when it will be up. Finals and school are currently taking over my life, so I don't have as much time as I would like to write at the moment. This alone took a week. Anyway, it is unbetaed so all mistakes are my own. Hope you enjoy it as much as my sleep deprived brain did coming up with it. And then writing it.

* * *

**Title: **Friendship is mutual blackmail elevated to the level of love...

**Warnings: **Contains what could be considered slash, so please, don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

He moaned loudly. It was one of the most embarrassing sounds that ever slipped past his lips, but it didn't matter much at this point. He was too far into it to back out now, and he knew his companion would knee him in the groin if he did. So, he sucked it up, and continued to swap spit with Daniel Shaw. Which wasn't quite as fun as the man above him always made it out to be, but if the shocked gasp from down the hallway was any indication, it made for quite the visual.

Bryce Larkin gripped what he could of the man's short hair, and earnestly plastered himself to the larger male. The surprised gleam that appeared in the dark eyes was momentarily worth it, but then it turned into a mischievous sparkle and he knew he was screwed.

Sure enough, the man's hands began to roam downward, teasing his sides before grabbing his hips and thrusting him against the unforgiving wall further. He groaned (in displeasure), but it was swallowed by Shaw's eager mouth, and if he could he would have rolled his eyes. This intel had better be worth having to make out with his friend. Of whom he had absolutely no romantic feelings for whatsoever. He hated Eve right now. Only she could come down with a bad case of the flu on the day before she was supposed to head to Paris with her husband for a mission that required a couple.

"Eve…is…going….to kill…us," Bryce gasped into Shaw's ear as he placed a series of kisses along the man's neck. Letting out a breathy laugh, the man buried his head onto Bryce's shoulder.

"Doubt it," the man muttered, his hands sneaking up Bryce's sides again, but this time pushing away the sheer fabric to get to skin. "She'll just ask if there's video. Are they gone yet?"

Bryce shifted in Shaw's grip, unable to stop the shudder that worked through his body as the man's fingertips lazily ghosted over his taunt stomach. He tightened his grip on the man's hair in warning, pleased with the hiss of pain that escaped the other's mouth, and casually glanced down the hallway. It was empty again, meaning they were clear.

However, Shaw apparently thought this would be a good time to latch his mouth on Bryce's exposed neck, payback no doubt, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. He would not whimper. Damn it he would not whimper. But, oh my god, where the hell did he learn to do _that_ with his tongue? And how did he know about that spot behind his ear that just made him come absolutely undone-

"Fuck, Dan-" he whimpered pathetically, unable to stop the man's name from spilling from his mouth, like a dirty swear word. The worst part was, he could feel Shaw smirking against his throat, and he knew the man was enjoying it. Bastard.

"Yes?" the man rasped in his ear, breath tickling his neck, and Bryce had the strong urge to bash his head against the wall behind him. Instead, he took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart, and form words.

"We're clear." He opened his eyes, and met twinkling brown. The amused expression on Shaw's face wasn't very comforting. In fact, it was down right terrifying, considering the situation he was currently in.

"I know."

Bryce gulped.

* * *

He felt like everyone was looking at it. Despite the layers of concealer, latex, and glue, it practically burned a hole on the side of his neck. A very big hole. Because it was a big bruise. Or, hickey, if he used the more technical term. He preferred bruise. It sounded more bad ass, and less like he had been making out with Daniel Shaw the day before. Although, it made him feel quite proud considering Shaw was dealing with the same thing; he'd left a pretty decent mark. And why was he thinking about this?

Striding down a boring grey hallway, he tried desperately to focus on the file in his hand instead. But he could feel the (nonexistent) stares from his co-workers as he passed a group of them in the hallway. Laughter broke out after they were behind him, and he fought the urge to turn, instead staring at the words in his briefing. It was probably why he completely missed seeing Evelyn Shaw come out of an office ahead of him then spotting him and walking towards him purposefully. Until it was too late.

He glanced up in surprise when small, but deceptively strong, hands suddenly gripped his arms causing him to drop the file in a flurry of papers. His grey eyes widened when he saw who it was, and he opened his mouth to complain, "Eve, what the mmmppfffff-"

He stumbled backwards as she slammed him against the wall, her lips finding his in a searing kiss. Shocked, he froze, completely unmoving beneath her. She must have sensed his hesitance because she pulled away for a moment, hands (not) innocently trailing down his sides, and her brown eyes gleamed in a way that made him even more uncomfortable.

"My husband says you're quite the kisser." She grinned, eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips. "I told him he was giving _you_ way too much credit."

His brain was fast catching up with the situation (he was tempted to call it assault, but eh), and when he realized she had just insulted his kissing skills, he was indignant. "Are you being serious Eve? You jumped me! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Good spies need to be prepared for anything," she suddenly hissed, grabbing the front of his t-shirt and pushing him back against the wall again. He met her eyes calmly this time, holding his palms up in surrender. As one of his teachers (even more awkward), he understood where she was coming from. But, still.

"So you thought _kissing me_," he started, staring at her pretty, smirking face in disbelief, "would prepare me for what? Randomly making out with people?" He threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes at her. "If I wanted to do that I'd go to some club. And the bad guys aren't huge on affection, unless those aren't guns that always get shoved into my back, because ummpff-"

She was kissing him again, he slowly realized. His brain vaguely registered that it should have been hot, because Eve was gorgeous, and she was _kissing him_. But then he remembered that she kissed Daniel Shaw on a regular basis, and just, no.

He pushed her away, panting slightly, knowing he no doubt looked slightly crazed as he glared at her. Repeating his earlier question, he asked, "What the hell was that for?"

"To shut you up," a familiar voice from to their left drawled, sounding amused. Bryce glanced over, terrified, and met Shaw's eyes. The man was just standing there in the hall, looking as if he was having a hard time containing laughter."Sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you about this mission briefing? It'll only take a moment."

"Sure hun," Eve said, giving Bryce one last long, lingering look, and turning around to grab her husband's arm. "See ya Bryce!"

Bryce would have responded, but Shaw had turned to give him a sly smirk, and he caught sight of a highly visible bruise on the side of the man's neck. Oh my-

"Yeah, see ya Bryce."

* * *

"Did you see the look on his face?" Dan asked Eve, who giggled adorably and wrapped her arms around his chest. He glanced down at her small form, eyes twinkling. "Thank Kate for that tip about his neck next time you see her. Or better yet, show her the pictures. If she finds them half as hot as you did…."

* * *

_Five years later..._

Neal slapped his palm against the fake door knob, so it could scan his palm and grant him entry. He felt like it was going slower than normal, so he glared at it, and said viciously, "I spent ten thousand designing you, open up before I-"

Getting the idea, there was a _click_, and the door opened. He wanted to admit that talking to inanimate objects probably wasn't a sign of sanity, but he was exhausted and could care less at this point. Shouldering the door open, he walked into the dark apartment, throwing his hat in the vague direction of the kitchen counter. He reached for the light switch, flicking it up, and blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted. When they did, he wanted to shut the lights off again and slam the door behind him. Because this just wasn't _right_.

There were pictures everywhere. On his book case, on his wall, on his fridge, on the table, on the floor. Oh look, there was even one in that plant over in the corner. Clenching his fists, he strode over to the dining room table, and peered down at the most prominent one. In the picture, he recognized himself. But he wasn't alone. There was a tall, broad shouldered, dark haired, ugly, stupid, idiotic man in the pictures also. And they were rather enthusiastically (on the surface) making out.

A yellow sticky note was attached to the picture in the corner, bold black marker proclaiming, "_Impressive undercover work, Larkin. The FBI clearly doesn't realize what a catch they made."_

The sound of heavy breathing and crinkling paper echoed in the empty room. Neal seethed. "Fowler."

Bed wasn't as important as burning these. Immediately.


	8. Retribution

**AN: **I wrote this a long time ago, and just had it laying around. With a little push from a fellow author, marihun, and I decided to post it as a drabble. It's kind of a mean one, so I was hesitant. But, oh well. I may continue the chapter (make an aftermath chapter) sometime though, if people would like. By the way, if you're on twitter, check out my link under homepage on my profile. I post story updates/teasers, and quote a lot of White Collar, Chuck, Glee, etc, along with generally fangirl over anything and everything that catches my attention. :D

* * *

**Title: **Retribution

**Word Count: **275

* * *

Peter watched as Neal chatted with the pretty barista at the coffee shop, then with a wave goodbye and that damn charming smile of his, the con man grabbed the two cups and headed outside.

"Must you flirt with anything that walks and has a heartbeat?" Peter asked Neal, exasperation heavy in his voice. Neal grinned again, and as they started walking back towards the FBI building replied.

"It's what I do Peter. Flirt and make friends." There was an innocent expression on Neal's face that Peter didn't buy for a single second, and voiced his opinion.

"Yes, but what is your definition of 'friend'. Another mark?" Now they were waiting at the corner for the light to change so they could cross the busy street. Peter had turned to Neal and sipped his Italian Roast coffee while studying the other man's face. A momentary look of sadness seemed to flit across Neal's face, but was gone so quick, that Peter thought he had imagined it.

Neal shook his head, and said as they started to cross the street, "Peter when you flirt, that other person is always a mark of some sort. You're testing each other's weaknesses, finding strengths-"

Just as they were making it up to the curb, Neal stumbled. Peter went to catch the man once his reflexes kicked in, but then a crack reached his ears. A very recognizable crack. As an FBI agent Peter knew a gunshot when he heard one, and that's what this noise was. His sharp mind quickly pieced together the stumble and what the corresponding noise meant. Neal had been shot.


	9. Marching On

**AN: **A small follow up to the last one. There is a song that goes with it too, over here http:/www(.)youtube(.)com/watch?v=UHvgAJe8bvM if you'd like to listen. **:D**

**Warning: **Blood, little gore maybe.

* * *

**Title: **Marching On (Retribution Pt. 2)

**Word Count: **1,210

* * *

"Are you ready?"

Peter glanced up at El, who was framed in the doorway. Her lips were pursed as she took in his somewhat pathetic form, hunched over himself on the edge of their bed, crumpling his nice black suit. He allowed himself to sweep his eyes down her frame, taking in her form fitting black dress and heels. Her hair was down, the brown locks cascading across her shoulders and down her back, and she had only lightly applied makeup. Probably a good thing, considering what they were about to do.

"Yeah. I think-" he trailed off, looking back down at his feet, "I think so."

He heard a quite sigh, and started as she was suddenly in front of him, kneeling between his legs. She reached out and gripped the knot on his loose tie, her fingers deftly tightening it, before she ran her hands down his chest, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles on the lapels of his jacket. He knew she was silently urging him to meet her eyes, but he knew if he did, she would see right through him and-

"Peter," she said softly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on his shoulders. "It's not your fault."

His eyes shot up to hers, and his breath stuttered in his chest when he saw that her eyes were shining. He panicked slightly, as he really wasn't good with women crying, but also because he really didn't want to hear this right now.

Moving to get up, he was pushed backwards, so that he had to awkwardly flail his arms to stay on the bed. If _he_ would have been there watching this, there would have been laughter. But all there was was silence. Terrible, crushing, painful silence. It weighed heavily on the room, and the air around him felt thick and stifled. It was suddenly hard to draw in a breath.

"Peter. Hey, Peter." El was shaking his shoulders, and he met her calm blue gaze with a wild one of his own. "It's okay, Peter. Look at, no. Look at me Peter. It's okay, to- to let go. It's only me, honey. You can't keep this bottled up anymore. Just- let it out."

He tried to keep the tears at bay. He really, really did. But it finally hit him that Neal wasn't _here_, and one tear turned into two, and soon they were streaming down his face as he curled in on himself and sobbed into his wife's arms.

* * *

It was two o'clock in the afternoon, according his wristwatch. The sun was beating down on the group of three: El, Mozzie, and himself. The heat was made worse by the dark clothing they all had on. Peter had to admit he was surprised to see Moz in something other than his typical 'crazy college professor' garb. The black suit didn't mesh well with that image at all, that was for sure.

Hearing a sniffle from beside him, he tightened his grip on El, silently offering comfort. He was terrified of looking at her, because he knew if he did he would probably burst into tears, and he wasn't sure there were any left in him.

"Two o'clock," he murmured, scanning the tarmac. Moments later, a black sedan pulled out behind the waiting plane and rolled to a slow stop. It was time.

They were silent as they watched three men and one woman, dressed rather plainly considering the occasion, get out of the car and converge near the back. After a quick conversation, one of the men opened the back hatch, and they all began to work together to get a large, wooden box out of the back.

El suddenly let out a sob, and threw her other arm around him, burying her head into his chest. "I ca-an't, Pe-eter."

"Shhh. I know," he said, voice cracking. His own vision blurred, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she shook in his arms. He echoed her earlier statement, "It's okay."

"No-o! It's- it's no-t. He's de-de-dea-" she couldn't say it, and he closed his eyes, unable to stop a tear from leaking down his face.

"He wouldn't- wouldn't want us to cry over him El," he choked out, watching as the four swiftly transferred the box over to the cargo plane. His eyes stayed on it as they walked up the ramp, and the last glimpse that he got of his friend, was a brief flash of red and blue. "He'd just...want us to move on."

* * *

"_Pe-" Coughs racked the man's body, horrible and painful sounding. A murmur surrounded them, but Peter wasn't paying any attention, so focused on his partner was he._

"_Neal! Neal, come on. Don't do this too me buddy," he begged, trying in vain to staunch the blood. He pressed down on the wound harder, and Neal groaned underneath him. The man's head lolled to back and forth as he gasped for air, and began to make a terrifying gurgling sound. _

"_Mm sorry, Peter," Neal rasped, wide grey eyes seeking his and Peter _knew_, even as a slick bloody hand slowly trailed upwards to grip his own. _

"_No, Neal. I can't."_

"_You were….a great partner." _

"_Someone call an ambulance!" Peter shouted desperately to the shocked crowd around them. _

"_It's too-" another cough that caused Peter's heart to shoot to his throat, and the hand on his spasmed, "too late. I'm dying."_

"_The hell you are," he said fiercely, but he knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything. A gunshot wound to the upper chest wasn't good, as the rapidly growing puddle of blood told him. He could feel Neal weakening as the seconds passed, and as he was watching, bright red blood began to dribble out of the side of the man's mouth. Each breath was more of a struggle than the last._

_The corner of the man's mouth twitched up, but his eyes told the truth. They held acceptance, and an odd feverish light. "You ne-ed to k-know something. My name s'not Neal….. 's Bryce Larkin."_

"_Why are you telling me this?" Peter asked, trying to contain the emotion that was bubbling up in his chest._

"_I failed," Neal whispered, eyes flickering over his partner's face, as if memorizing his features. "'m sso sssorry."_

_Unwanted tears streamed down Peter's face as Neal tried to breath in, but began choking instead and tears leaked out of the corner of the man's eyes as his face twisted up in pain. The gasping got worse, and Peter understood what he had to do. _

"_I know…Bryce, I know. It's not- it's not your fault."_

_He kept eye contact even as those once bright and vibrant grey eyes suddenly got dimmer, the spark leaving them. The chest beneath his hands stilled, a quiet exhale leaving Neal's body as it finally relaxed. _

_And Peter felt a part of himself die with his partner. _

* * *

Standing on that tarmac, watching as the plane carrying Bryce Larkin's body took off for Washington, D.C., Peter Burke vowed he would destroy the Ring. He would avenge his friend's death and complete the mission if it was the last thing he did.


	10. Brother

**AN: **A two for one, I guess you could say.

* * *

**Title: **Brother

**Prompts: **acting, brother

* * *

He stared at the phone on the table, it's screen brightly proclaiming, "ONE MISSED CALL-WALKER". There was an unpleasant feeling twisting up in his gut, and his hand shook a little as he picked up his wine glass, taking a long sip. If he looked in a mirror he was pretty sure he'd see his own terrified expression staring back at him. His masks were gone. And that wasn't good.

When he had been a young kid, his mother had enrolled him and his brother in acting class. In hindsight, that was probably the worst decision she had ever made in her life. She probably should have just enrolled both of them in ballet with their sister, but being a nine year old _boy _at the time, he was sure he would have pitched a fit at having to wear tights and prance around.

But, his parents had been big on the arts, his mother having been an art history professor at a local college, while his father had preferred music. He vividly remembered many a night spent in the study, sitting on his mother's lap as she quietly lectured the three of them about Degas, Renoir, Dali, Cezanne, and hundreds of other artists, while the dulcet tones of Sinatra, his father's favorite, backed her up.

He'd always been mesmerized by art. The vibrant colors swirling across canvases, or sharp lines defining more than boundaries, fascinated him. However, out of his siblings, he was the only one who felt that way. His brother, and sister, would have preferred to go play outside, climb trees, play in the mud. Which he enjoyed also, but those activities could never compare to the art lessons. He would rather be covered in paint than mud any day.

He figured his mother had gotten a little frustrated at their apparent lack of interest, and in a fit of pique just picked another art for both of them to study. Surprisingly, it had worked and they all seemed to find a niche of their own. His brother with acting, his sister with dancing, and him with painting. Of course, seeing how much fun his brother was having forced him to beg for her to enroll him also, which she did, thankfully.

His sister had loved dance, eventually going on to pursue it in college. But he and his brother, well, they had put their acting skills to good use, just in different ways. Not necessarily _good_ ways though.

He ended up using his acting skills to con people. However, to be completely fair, so did his brother. Just in a different way. A _better_ way. A way he wished he could have. And he was, he figured. Now. After countless illegal acts and almost four years in prison.

Looking at the flashing screen, and the name, he had to put his head in his hands. The last time she had called, hadn't been, well, good. It never was when he talked to her alone. He took a deep breath, and scrubbed his face tiredly, staring at the innocent looking phone. After a moment's contemplation, he snatched it, and hit the talk button and put it on speaker before could change his mind. It hadn't even rang once before it was picked up. He picked up the distress in her voice immediately, and swallowed hard.

"_Neal? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_

"It's Bryce isn't it?" he asked, voice flat, devoid of emotion. He knew he might be getting this call sometime. That didn't make it any easier.

"_I couldn't-"_ the woman choked on her words, sounding tortured. _"I tried, Neal. I swear, I tried. It was- was too late. We couldn't do anything for him, Neal."_

"Just tell me Sarah. I need to hear it."

"_Bryce is- Bryce is dead. Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Neal."_

He'd unconsciously been holding his breath, and it left his body in a loud whoosh when he heard her say that. Leaning back in his chair, he looked up at the ceiling as the sounds of Sarah breaking down filled the room. A single tear fell from his eye, streaking down his face, followed by another, and another. He closed his eyes, face screwing up in pain. The pain of a brother who just lost a part of himself. Again.

No amount of acting would be able to hide that emotion.

* * *

It was late. Past his bedtime. Peter didn't need a clock to tell him that. But the current case was consuming his attention, and he just wanted check a few more things before he went up stairs and crashed like El had a few minutes ago.

He had just pulled up the FBI logon screen, and was half way through typing his password, when a quiet knock startled him. He glanced towards the front door, puzzled and a little annoyed. Who the hell would possibly be calling so late? Quickly, he got up from the table and headed towards the front door. Before he could even open it, he recognized the familiar form through the side window. Neal.

As swiftly as possible, he undid the deadbolt, and slid the chain aside, the metal making a tinkling noise that caused him to wince. He put a hand on the door knob and turned it as quietly as he could, the door opening and letting in the cool night breeze.

"Neal! What do you…" he trailed off, shocked as he finally took in his consultant's appearance.

The normally styled hair was in disarray, and he still had on the outfit he'd been wearing earlier that day, albeit wrinkled beyond what he thought the man would ever find acceptable. What drew his attention the most though, was the man's face. The normally bright grey eyes looked dead. They were so bloodshot that for a moment he thought the man had been drinking, but then he realized that those were _tears_ streaking down his face, and _that_ was out of place.

"Neal, are you- are you okay?"

The man shook his head, and a fresh wave a tears fell causing Peter to just stand frozen in the doorway and stare. "Do you mind if I…come in? I need to- I need to tell you something Peter. Please."


	11. Switch

**Switch **

**Prompt:** Multiple Personality Disorder of the government sanctioned variety.

* * *

Sometimes Neal wondered, despite the fact that he knew deep down inside that it was dangerous for him to wonder the things he did. To wonder why he never told anyone that he didn't remember anything before waking up in an empty New York apartment all those years ago. Why he didn't remember having a mother, a father, or siblings. Why he had no clue where he was from, or where he should be. Why it was _so easy_ for him to fall into the con life, to thrive in it. Why he could slip into an alias so fast. Why he didn't like guns, or violence, yet was so capable of using both with ease. Why running was like breathing, it was so natural. Why something about the government alphabet agencies made him shiver. Why he woke up screaming in the middle of the night in his cell, broken fragments of blood and muzzle flashes passing across his vision like a dvd that skips the most important parts. Why even getting out of the small cell to work with Peter Burke made that itch to run return. Why he felt torn in two working with the FBI. Why the idea of stability made him cringe. Why he got flashes of people he didn't recognize, names he didn't know, and things he didn't remember learning.

He wondered why the name Neal Caffrey didn't feel right. Why it didn't feel like him. Why none of his aliases did. Why every time he saw it or heard it he got this niggling feeling in the back of his mind, a building pressure of _something_. Why there was this black cloud that seemed to perpetually hang over his thoughts, obscuring his vision. Why he woke up with bruises and cuts he didn't remember getting. Why he knew how to use concealer like a professional makeup artist. Why he avoided certain books in his bookshelf. Why he felt so tired and on edge during the day sometimes. Why he felt like bursting into tears every time Peter or El mentioned concern for him, or when they invited him over for dinner. Why El reminded him so much of someone, but he couldn't think of _who_.

And that was just the thing. He couldn't _remember_. There were blank spots in his memory, pieces that just weren't there. He'd fall asleep at the table, and wake up gasping in the bathroom, draped over the bathtub, muscles aching like he'd just been in a fight. It terrified him. Kept him awake at night, waiting for _something_, though what, he didn't know. But then, he'd end up closing his eyes-

* * *

-and Bryce would wake up.

* * *

**AN:** I'm back in the game. For fans of Cascade, I'm doing a reread right now, and I'm gonna start writing it and this one again. :)


End file.
